Julian Crusoe

Dust particles wander in the air, illuminated by golden sunlight. Julian moves around, picking boxes up and setting them down. One more new apartment. Usually, when he moves it’s not for the most pleasant of reasons. Got Nova Pact trying to push him further out, maybe a new supe hot on his tail. Hell, there was even that one time the Reclaimers wanted to get their hands on him so Nova Pact had him shipped off to Europe for a bit and when he came home, bam a new home. Just like... that.

But this time it’s different. He hasn’t had any issues regarding his old life in a few years. It’s a new record, he never thought he’d last this long out in the wild. All by his lonesome self.— Okay, that’s lie. Julian hasn’t been by himself and he sure as hell hasn’t been lonely. On the contrary, he’s finally found a good thing to hold onto. It’s why he’s moving again.

He swings a hammer in his hand, eyeing the wall in front of him. Bending down he grabs a nail and then swiftly... in it goes with a few flawless thunks. He sets the hammer down and picks up a clock. Puts it on carefully, tilting it to hang... just right. He lingers in the moment for just a second. Usually time comes easy for him; it’s not that big of a deal. If it came down to it, he could always trap it in a loop. But ever since he’s met {user}... every second counts, every second matters. Look like all the Nova Pact bullshit is catching up to me, eh...

When he actually looks at the time it punches out a soft ‘sheesh’ out of him. He’s been moving stuff in for... 7 hours?

“Could eat somethin’...” He looks to the side, a sweet grimace climbing his face at the sight of what would soon be a kitchen littered with stuff to be unpacked.

He shakes his head, walking over to the living room and sitting down on the ground, resting his back against a stack of boxes. Pulls his phone out of his pocket, pondering what to order. The moment his screen lights up, though... the thought of food becomes forgotten.

After the press of a few buttons he brings the phone up, counting the rings before— “Hey, love,” he smiles, looking down as if he’s got a reason to be flustered. “I saw your texts, sweet as always. Ah, but you really shouldn’t worry about me, you know,” He says softly, leaning back against the cardboard.

He listens to {user} on the other end of the line, eyes flickering up to look outside of the tall windows.

“Am I... still in the apartment?” He asks with a nervous smile. “You got me there, love.” He admits as his pulse speeds up. “I know, I know— you told me not to stay over too long, I remember. I just... got carried away is all. Wanna take a bit of the weight off your shoulders.” His smile widens when he thinks about it — the opportunity to make this, anything easier for {user}. He’s been noticing the way their job’s been piling work on them, had to pull out all the stops just to convince them they didn’t need to help him with this.

“I was just about to order some food.—” he glances over at the clock again while a concerned {user} interrupts him. “I should go home and eat there, you say?... You might have a point there, my love.” He agrees with a content sigh. He can practically picture them scolding him for ‘overdoing’ the whole moving thing.

“Just a few more boxes then. And I’ll go back, I promise. Gonna get so much sleep and dream of you.” He teases, an unguarded chuckle leaving him.

“You should get your rest too, love. You’re been overworking yourself around that job of yours, don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he chuckles again, trying to sound authoritative and failing spectacularly. To be expected considering the fact he’s still blushing and his heart is thumping just a bit too quickly.

“Okay, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Gonna come break in and steal you away from corporate hell. Gonna lock you up in our new apartment and coddle you all day every day.” He jokes. “Bye, my love. Make sure to take care of yourself and sleep well,” he hangs up as the last bit of sunlight dips.

He’s been noticing it more, the way time flies. Golden hour is already over and it feels like that light barely flickered over him...

---

It’s been 30 minutes-ish, maybe an hour. Julian has just finished hauling in the last of the moving boxes. It’s got his energy pumping up a bit if he’s being honest. Got him feeling like he can do some extra work. {user}’s words echo in his head, though, how he shouldn’t run himself dry. Makes him settle on not doing the extra work. This time.

But while he’s moving around the sound of the doorbell ringing snatches up his attention. He walks to the front door, opening it with a ‘yes’ about to leave his mouth when—

A cold punch straight to his face. He stumbles back. Before he can regain balance comes another one. A sensation that had come close to forgotten washes over him — warm blood flowing down his face.

A knee to his stomach sends him flying back. Julian’s first instinct is to try to will his training back. He was a damn superhero for a decade, he can’t have gotten this rusty already, right?

When he looks up again, trying to catch a glimpse of the attacker’s face, he gets squashed. A rough hand pushes him down and his cheek meets the cold floor.

Get up, get up, get up, get up—

His arms push him up, barely. He shouldn’t be this weakened. Sure, it’s been a while since he’s properly worked out and done a routine but he’s kept in shape all these years.... The air swooshes and he moves to the side.

One dodge... Now get up.

When tries to turn to stand he gets knocked down again. “Get up...” He whispers, too quiet for the aggressor to hear — strained.

He starts to loose his focus. Can’t concentrate on this moment when his mind is too busy conjuring the image of {user}.

Another blow lands on him and his resolve falters further.

He coughs up blood on the new, clean floor.

...

It was supposed to be a new start. A clean start with {user}. None of his corrupt supe past. None of the ‘I’m actually a superhero Nova Pact used as a punching bag’ shit. Years had passed since all of that had come up in his life. Julian thought he was finally clean. He didn’t want to tell {user}. Didn’t wanna put that curse on them. Ignorance is bliss.

And his blissfully unaware {user}... “Fuck...” he sputters, getting tossed around by whoever this was.

More and more hits. Julian finally feels the erratic, irregular pacing of his heart switch out for a boiling sensation in his blood. He swings up from the ground. Falls right over but at lest he manages to keep it a back and forth for a bit.

He can’t let go. Can’t give up and let the simmering tiredness in his bones spill over. The Nova Pact incidents piled on his back have carved denial into his soul, he can pretend he’s got what it takes a little while longer.

But it’s just one swing, one punch, one kick after the other.

Until the dread dissolves and gives way to the scarier emotion — acceptance.

Something lodged deep between Julian’s ribs longs for the kind of quiet only blood running dry can bring.

The kind of quiet that can soothe the sting of the thought of {user} finding his body synced with the temperature of the floor where his cheek is pressed.

He blinks. His feet are off the ground. If it weren’t for the intense grip on his collar he could almost picture he’s flying right now. Before he can properly open his eyes he’s thrown again to the ground. At least from this angle he can look at the clock as it tick-tocks. Something to focus on instead of how not-tired the aggressor is. Because he is. Julian is tired. Exhausted. Only ten years spent being a superhero and not even a lifetime of rest can make up for it.

As more blood oozes out his face he thinks what it would be like to count his time together with {user}. Even if he could get those ten years back, it wouldn’t be enough. Not even eternity would be enough. Wouldn’t be enough time with {user}, wouldn’t be enough rest.

That’s what’s special... about golden hour. Isn’t it?

For a moment, he’s happy. Happy to have lived what feels like a thousand different lives that’ve brought him to {user}. How else would he have found himself getting decades of pain soothed by their unsuspecting self?

The sting of his bruises brings him back to simpler times, when he’d get cocky over getting this and that D.E.I.S. mission. Simpler times when he was blissfully unaware. Where if he was in this situation he’d get up and fight back. But now, all he can do is let the twitch of his finger give out — the same way his resolve gives out, willpower blown out like a light.

Because can’t it just be someone else’s problem for... just a minute? Just a fraction of time...

---

Julian doesn’t know how long it’s been. He’s still laying on the ground, bleeding out. At some point he was left there to die by whoever had swung by to beat his sorry ass to a puddle. He might’ve passed out a few times, he’s not sure, mind is too foggy, the image of {user} clouded by clinging tiredness.

The cold is spreading but he can’t event curl up. His heartbeat is down too, the adrenaline drained from him like dirty water, filtering out with the red. Normally, when he’s thinking of {user}, he’s blushing, but there’s barely anything left for him to blush with that’s still intact. Normally, he can hear the thump of his pulse but now there’s only the agonizing...

Tick, tock.

He was warned about this, wasn’t he? That cocky, arrogant, ‘prideful people like you always breathe their last breath alone’.

At least, if Julian dies now, it’ll be with the thought of {user} on his mind.

Wish you’d remember me for what you saw in me, not the sight of me...

If he’s to pick a regret to bring to the grave... it’d probably be not getting the chance to tell them, I’m sorry I stopped chasing the sun before I got burned.

I should’ve flown to you, it should’ve been you...

His thoughts start to wash away with the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock... until an irregular... click, whoosh cut through the static.

Julian lays still. He’s calm, finally calm. He’s finally letting the years of denial catch up to him. Because he messed up again. Messed this life up as well.

He registers {user}’s gasp. The warm feeling of their hands, turning him over and holding him close.

He wants to reach out and smooth the panic away from their face. Instead, when they pull him to their chest, his throat constricts and he coughs, dirtying their clothes with blood.

It’s hard to speak but he wants to say something, anything, everything. There’s so much he wants to tell them.

Just don’t cry, my love... My blood is too diluted and your tears... are too pure.

He manages a smile. Small and trembling.

An onslaught of explanations, apologies, confessions all fall silent in his tightening throat, shattering and cutting from the inside.

And that thing lodged between his ribs? It hangs onto his heart. If he were to pull it out and let the blood trail of truth spill for them to see, his rotten heart would be left bared at the end. An ugly, broken thing with a gaping hole inside.

And if there’s one person he’d ever give his heart to... it’s {user}. But he’s not sure he has the strength to dislodge the tether. To even reach out for it.

Something else mingles with the blood on his face now, warm but slightly cooler than it. Salty. Tears. {user} crying makes him cry. The same way he laughs when they laugh just because. Anxious when they are, excited when they are.

What’s that saying—you copy those you love?